


Apex Predators

by iloveyoudie



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iloveyoudie/pseuds/iloveyoudie
Summary: The mist swirled around George as he darted through the forest, shadow to shadow, tree to tree. His pursuer was hot on his heels but he knew that when things came down to a matter of speed, he was faster.
Relationships: Ronnie Box/George Fancy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	Apex Predators

The mist swirled around George as he darted through the forest, shadow to shadow, tree to tree. His pursuer was hot on his heels but he knew that when things came down to a matter of speed, he was faster. The forest was eerily silent; no nighttime screams of foxes, no insects chirping or buzzing, no flutters of bats or calls of nocturnal birds. It was a still sort of quiet and even though George was taking extra care to be soundless himself, his light steps crunched the leaves underfoot in a way that was resounding to his sensitively tuned ears. 

The man chasing him, as much animal as he was man all said, made no such efforts to hide. Ronnie Box wasn’t careful or quiet or quick. He wasn’t slight enough to slip into shadows or hide behind trees and his pride wouldn’t allow him to slink about as George did. He stormed. Full of gnashing teeth and heavy footfalls and strength and aggression to spare. To some it wasn’t an effective approach to the hunt but he wasn't the type to care about method when it brought about results, and Ronnie _always_ caught his prey. 

He was a beast. 

George flattened against a massive oak, closed his eyes and tried to center himself. He felt the cold on his chilly skin, heard the breeze move the leaves in a gentle rustle overhead, and then, not so far off, heard the loud steps of the predator, larger and heavier, cracking through the underbrush. 

“Georgie-booooooy...” The growling voice rumbled out sing-song and followed with deep inhalations of breath, loud sniffs, and a low chuckle, “No use hidin from me.” 

There were a few more steps. George was sure he could only be a few yards away now. He opened his eyes and glanced up into the branches above him. Maybe he could climb. It had worked for him before, a quick way of hiding. He wasn’t sure if the other didn't like the height or if he just wasn’t smart enough to think of it, but he’d never seen Box climb before. He was much more into the tracking and the ground chase. Beasts such as he certainly weren't much for trees. 

Yes, George would climb... If he could be quiet enough. 

The heavy footfalls moved past his tree and the sniffing sound grew louder. George swore he could hear Box’s harsh, greedy breathing on the wind, smell cigarettes and whiskey and blood. It twisted in his gut with a tinge of fear, as well as a bit of exhilaration. Anticipation. He shouldn’t have been so invigorated by it, but he was every single time and that was the trouble. 

They had played this game before. They always did. 

George glanced up the tree’s trunk and bit his lip as he tried to find handholds. Slowly, one hand after the other, as quiet as he could, he pulled himself from one rather impressive old knot to another. It wasn’t a difficult climb, not even enough to pull audible effort from him, and there was no sound but the slight scuff of his shoes on the bark, a bit of a tumble of loose chips, a leaf that dislodged and drifted to the forest floor as he found the crook of a large branch to settle in. He pressed his back to the trunk again in this new orientation and shimmied so he could see more of the forest around him. 

There was now only silence. Mist. Leaves. But Box was gone. 

_Shit._

George pushed a hand through his hair. He should have been sweating, should have had a racing pulse, but that sort of rise of emotion was a thing of the past for him. This was the game they played. _Their_ game. The hunt and chase. His eyes scoured the shadows, dragged through the leaf strewn ground. He listened to hear that huffing breath, those investigative sniffs, that rumbling chuckle of enjoyment... 

“Hullo Georgie-boy…” The voice came from above him, confident and amused. 

George’s head shot up and there, with fingers gripped several centimeters straight into the trunk, was Box balanced on a messy junction of branches with a grin spread across his angular face. His teeth flashed bright in the dark and there was the hint of sharp canines as he licked his lips. His eyes pulsed with their usual cool blue glow and reflected with an animalistic shine in the low light. 

“Didn’t think you were a climber,” George said quietly. His body tensed to flee again, to leap or drop the dozen feet or so to the ground without a second thought. 

“Nah,” Box grinned, “But your little climbing tricks can only work on me once or twice. I'm not that stupid. I’ve got a pretty decent vertical leap.” His hands, tipped with thick dangerous claws in this half shifted form, sunk even further into the bark with an audible crack of the wood. 

George licked his lips, dragged his tongue over his teeth, and flashed his own green-gold eyes over Box’s bare torso. He hadn’t even the decency to cover up and pretend he was normal. His muscles tensed under the dusting of dark hair that covered him and slightly pointed ears peeked from his thick wind tousled hair. He’d forgone shoes altogether, just balanced on the balls of his feet, and his trousers were dark enough to make his powerful legs practically disappear in the dark. Box was coiled and tensed to leap, to catch, to pin and devour him should he flee and George’s eyes flicked with a shimmer from his body to his face and he let out a disappointed sort of tut, a ‘tsk’ and a hiss between his teeth. 

And he leapt. 

Both of them pushed off the tree nearly simultaneously and the sound of the wood breaking under their combined supernatural strength rocked the silent forest around them. George hit the ground cleanly but knew Box would be on him in a moment and he only had enough time to turn and face him before the larger man hit him with a shoulder tackle from above. 

Werewolf versus Vampire. It was the oldest story in the book. Ancestral enemies. Rivals through to their very blood. 

George’s back hit the ground and the pair of them skidded across the damp leaves of the forest floor. Box snarled in his ear and he could feel his hot breath, his teeth snap and graze his cheek, and then all the air push out of his body as George kicked out and hit him square in the midsection with both feet. Box was thrown back, not fast enough to avoid it or grab onto something for purchase, and his body hit the trunk of the same tree they had just fled. It made another cracking groan, shivered, and there was a further deafening splitting sound as the branches above broke and came tumbling down on top of Box’s massive form. 

George turned and scrambled up, once more taking off into the forest. Behind him he could hear Box laughing, hear him smashing and throwing the branches away, and it had bought George just enough time to get away. To plan. Reassess. 

Time for him to take the offensive. 

It was the eternal debate on who was stronger, who was faster, whose skin was thicker, whose senses keener but George knew that neither of them truly used their full potential in these little games. George would always play the quick one, Box the brute, exchanging blows and swapping who was giving chase until they locked together into something inescapable and one of them gave in. 

Maybe one day they wouldn’t simply _give_. Maybe instead they would tear each other to pieces like everyone expected them to. Maybe all the chasing, the fighting, the capture would have what the rest of their kind would call an _inevitable end_. 

George disappeared into the forest with a purpose this time. He could hear tiny creatures flee the pair of them as they expanded the radius of their chase. Behind him he could hear Box’s yell, a roaring howl, more roused and energized than angry, and George couldn’t help a smile of his own. 

He leapt this time, no climbing, no flying (that would be cheating), and as his feet hit the first branch he sprung off it to another and then another until he was sure he’d shaken Box once again and was free to turn and loop back around. It was his turn to be the predator. In a position like this it was much easier to embrace his nature, the shadows, the cold, the silence. If he wanted he could close his eyes and listen to hear the thudding of Box’s massive heart in his chest, to hear the blood moving through his veins, feel the heat he gave off that George coveted to devour for his own. 

With preternatural speed he moved branch to branch until he was circling above Box, silent as the grave, nothing but shining eyes in the darkness of the trees. He followed him until it was clear Box knew the tables had turned and his shoulders hunched and tensed in caution. His nose twitched for a scent on the wind - but it had died down. His head tilted for telling sounds that didn’t come. And when he drifted too close to a low hanging branch, just close enough where George could have teased him with a graze of hand through his hair or a puff of breath over him, Fancy instead struck out. 

George’s thin claw-like hand closed around Box’s throat and plucked him up like he was a fish in a barrel. Without a bit of effort he lifted him from the ground and dangled him, admired his catch like Box's struggling body was nothing more than fresh game in a snare. His weight felt like nothing when compared to George’s crystalline strength and with every kick and thrash, every gurgled growl, his hand closed tighter and tighter until his own cutting nails bit into Box’s brown skin. He brought him up to eye height and regarded him cooly until Ronnie met his gaze and calmed as best he could with the knowledge he’d been caught. His breathing huffed harshly through his nose and he bared his teeth at George in a snarl. 

“Same tricks don’t work twice, hmm?” George smiled, his eyes flaring with their own deep glow. He could feel Box’s pulse hammering under the skin of his throat, under his palm, such a delicious temptation. With the smallest bit of effort he could be tearing that throat out completely, he could have all that lovely blood on his hands. It would be all his for the taking. 

But he was distracted by him, a hulk of a man like a fine slab in a butcher's window, smelling so husky and earthy and tantalising... But before he could say anything else Box struck out with one of his arms, slashed his claws close enough to shred through George’s shirt, and when he couldn’t get purchase on his upper body he instead grabbed for an ankle and with an undignified yelp George found his balance thrown and the both of them once more tumbled to the forest floor in a heap. 

George’s head hit the ground hard enough to give him pause and Box rolled onto his belly to push himself up but groaned from the residual feeling of George’s grip on his throat. They met eyes from their prone positions and time stretched a moment. George knew they were both thinking it… Would it be tonight they finally gave in? The Coven versus The Pack and all that entailed. Apex predator of the mortal world versus the pinnacle of the undead. 

George was the first to move, to lunge at Box, leap at him with claws outstretched, wrap them both up in a tussling mass of wiry supernatural strength and agility. They became a rolling mess of teeth and claws and flashing eyes. They scratched and bit and clothing came away in shreds, leaves and underbrush uprooted and flew about, and each found moments of domination snatched away by the unexpected strength or speed of the other. 

Box managed to finally catch one of George’s wrists and then the other, and then he was pinning him on his back, straddling his hips and locking his legs down with his own, and George met his eyes and growled, flashed his fangs dangerously, and Box retaliated with his own sound, a deep gutted roar that George felt through his whole body and made his hair stand on end. 

And Box went for the throat. 

And George closed his eyes and smiled. He tilted his chin up and accepted it. 

Box's fangs pressed into the flesh until George was sure it would break and then he chuckled. That deep snarling growl rolled into a velvety laugh and those fangs on his throat dragged a line over his pale flesh before they snapped teasingly shut a hair's breadth from piercing him. Box sniffed and nuzzled the junction of his jaw and finally pressed a kiss right where George’s pulse should have been just as he released his hands from his immobilizing grip. 

George laughed too. He couldn't help it. He looped his arms around Box’s neck and buried his hands in his hair as they embraced. He scratched his fingers along Ronnie’s scalp and listened to the man hum in pleasure. 

"Just a great bloody dog, aren’t you Ronnie?" 

"Maybe, but I fuckin had you tonight." 

"Only cause I let you…" George smiled. 

"You just can't resist my charm is all," Box flashed that grin again and finally dipped in for a kiss. 

Vampires and werewolves were mortal enemies they said. Battling creatures of the night. An age old blood feud. Vampires nothing but unfeeling manipulators, leeches and lechers of the darkness. Werewolves archaic barbaric beasts, overgrown hounds. Abominations of mortality. 

But upon becoming a vampire, George had discovered how untrue most of that was. It was rhetoric. Tradition. Stereotyping. He’d even bought into it for a while before he'd been turned and after, until he’d had a few too many run-ins with Box and Jago. Of course Jago had been of the old school too. Hated George. Tried to kill him… Tried to use his rank to keep Box leashed.. 

But Jago was dead now and barely an afterthought and Box did what he wanted now that he was free of his yoke. 

Box’s hands roamed George’s chest, now bare as his own after their game, over his pale porcelain skin until his fingers traced the scars of the old gunshot wounds that led to George’s turning. 

"Snuck out under daddy’s nose, just for me?" 

George tsked, "Morse is my sire, not my daddy. And I'm out to feed." 

"I know, love. Can taste it on your tongue," Box rumbled low. 

George grinned and with another sudden burst rolled them again, pushed Ronnie’s shoulders and twisted his hips until their roles were reversed and it was him on top and the larger man beneath him. He kissed him hard and deep and felt the arousal and love flutter through him again. He’d been told vampires had no feelings before he was one of them, and even after he’d been told that nothing but hate existed between his kind and Box’s. It felt good to know they were all wrong. What they felt for each other wasn’t odd or dangerous or unexpected. It just broke tradition and pissed people off and maybe, in a way, that was another very enjoyable side effect. 

“Still hungry,” George murmured when their kiss broke and he tugged Ronnie’s lip between his teeth. 

Ronnie grinned at him and rumbled with a pleased sound as his hand slid down to George’s arse and grabbed and held, “Gotta bit of something for ya..” 

George grinned back. 

“Not here though,” Box’s head tilted as if he heard something and George matched him, listening as life returned to the forest in the wake of their path of destruction, “They’ll know exactly where we were if they come looking.” 

George nodded and reluctantly peeled himself away from the delicious warmth of Ronnie’s body against his cold flesh. He craved that warmth and would get it again, but only when they were safe. 

“Our spot?” George offered him a hand up, which was taken as Ronnie also rose to his feet. 

“Or we could run-” Ron held his hand tight and pinned him with his intense blue gaze, “-get out of this bloody town. Away from all the-” 

“They’re my family,” George knew they weren’t, not in the traditional sense, but aside from the overbearing traditions they weren’t bad. He still had a lot to learn and while he wanted to go away with him eventually, he just wasn’t ready to fly the nest yet. 

Box knew it. They’d had this conversation before and when he flashed another smile, it was softer and only for him, and very clear that he understood, “We got all the time in the world, love.” 

Their hands were still held together and as George tangled their fingers he felt the steady reassuring pulse through every bit of Ronnie’s hand. He squeezed harder, gripped him tight, and flashed him a more devilish sort of grin, “Race ya.” 

And he tugged him, tossed him behind him, and took off towards their place, a place they could be alone, and behind him heard Box roar and slide through the leaves and laugh and call him a dirty bloody cheat before he finally once more gave chase. 

**Author's Note:**

> A little too late for spooky season but managed to get it done so I'm calling that a win.  
> Do I have several diff iterations of this sort of dynamic in my mind? Yes. Maybe I'll write some more.


End file.
